I have Read the Book too and I too have NOT come across any such passage.
In fact, let me quote from the book and from the chapters on kashmir,
Page 53,
"Two star shells drifted slowly down from the moonless sky, blazing an intense, sharp-edged magnesium light over the pine forests below. Off to our left, beyond the next hill, Indian border guards began firing shimmering volleys of tracer bullets. From somewhere farther behind the fortified Line of Control (LOC) that divides Kashmir, a battery of Indian 81mm mortars opened fire.
Rashid laughed. “They are frightened. The Indians are firing at ghosts again.” Indeed, Indian troops guarding the ceasefire line in Kashmir were jumpy and trigger-happy. Small bands of mujahedin (holy warriors), were slipping across the hilly, wooded border each night to join the national uprising in the Indian-held portion of Kashmir. The nervous Indians fired at every sound, at anything that moved in the night.
We were huddled down behind a small knoll, shivering slightly as the damp cold of the Kashmir mountains penetrated our olivedrab field jackets. After a few minutes, the firing abated, then ceased completely. The rising wind stirred the tall pines around us. Rashid rose to his feet and began surveying the Indian positions below us through a pair of powerful German field glasses. He had come up to the front line that night to study Indian defenses. I had joined him on the reconnaissance mission, eager to have a close look at the barrier defenses on the Indian"
Page 54,
"side of the Line of Control, a series of strongpoints behind a lethal barrier of thick razor wire, minefields, and delicate sensors that detected movement and sound.
Rashid had made, as I had, a very long, arduous journey to join the intifada in Kashmir. At some time in the distant past, Rashid had been an engineering student in Iraq. He showed me an old, dog-eared photo of himself: youthful, beardless, and slim. Now, many years and more pounds later, the burly Rashid looked the picture of a modern Islamic holy warrior, with his thick black beard, regulation Chitral knitted hat from Afghanistan, green field outfit and combat boots, AK-47 Kalashnikov, and a brace of Chinese-made grenades.
Soon after graduating from university in Baghdad, Rashid went off to Pakistan to join the great jihad (holy war), that was being waged against the Soviet army in Afghanistan. For Rashid, and thousands of other idealistic young Muslim men and women, the struggle against the Communists in Afghanistan was not merely a crusade against evil and oppression; it seemed, at the time, a path that would lead the downtrodden Islamic world to renewal and dignity.
Rashid had joined the Islamic International Brigade and fought the Communists for four years in the 1980s in Afghanistan, where he was trained by the CIA as a heavy weapons specialist. We heard a series of rapid explosions about a mile off to our left. Rashid told me Indian howitzers were firing at a nullah, a narrow, dry gully that intersected the border at a right angle, and that provided a sheltered corridor along which mujahedin units slipped across the border between the Indian and Pakistani parts of Kashmir. Indian patrols were either using newly acquired nightvision devices to spot and then bring fire down on a group of holy warriors who were trying to penetrate the minefields and wire along the LOC, or were merely interdicting a known crossing point with random shelling."
Page 59,
"After six hours of this unrelenting torture, we arrive at Muzzafarabad, the grandly named capital of the third of the mountain state controlled by Pakistan, Azad Kashmir. The city is very far from impressive. It is a dismal collection of moldering concrete buildings and wooden shacks set in a dreary valley, with the usual Indo-Pakistani urban backdrop of broken-down vehicles, stray animals, street urchins, refuse heaps, ugly overhead power lines, and squalid shops lit by a single, dim fluorescent bulb giving off a funereal blue glow. I was not impressed. Could this truly be the gateway to fabled Kashmir?
I was escorted, with much solemnity, to meet the prime minister of Azad Kashmir, a soft-spoken, venerable gentleman with a very white beard, neatly attired in a gray Nehru jacket and a high Karakul fur hat. Very politely, in his gentle voice, he denounced the impious, godless Indians who were raping and pillaging his beloved Kashmir. “You must study the Holy Koran,” he admonished me gently, wagging a finger and showing "
Page 60,
"grandfatherly concern for the visiting nonbeliever. “Allah will guide us to the true path in Kashmir, and smite the ungodly.” Brave words, but there were some 840 million ungodly Hindus across the border.
The prime minister seemed to have little else of note to say. We exchanged platitudes, and drank milky tea. Known as chai, this form of tea is unique to the Asian subcontinent. To make it properly, you must take a battered, blackened, greasy aluminum pan; add contaminated water, two or three tablespoonfuls of insect-infested sugar, raw, unpasteurized milk, and black, perfumed tea; then boil it all up into a sweet white drink that will either cure whatever ails travelers to these parts or, more likely, leave you with Q fever, cholera, and assorted parasites. In these parts, tea cannot be refused when offered, which it always is. I discreetly gulped down an antibiotic capsule I had learned to always keep secreted in my pocket for just such social occasions.
I was relieved to bid the venerable prime minister farewell and continue our journey to see the refugee camps in Azad Kashmir and continue on to the front at Chokoti. We left town, and crossed the rushing river over an old, groaning Bailey bridge left over from World War II. There was a large flag-decked stone arch surmounting its far end, bearing a sign proclaiming “Welcome to Azad Kashmir.” We drove through, leaving melancholy Muzzafarabad well behind."
Page 78,
"foreign “Afghani” who had remained in and around Peshawar, went to Kashmir to train and assist the fighters of the new intifada. The Afghan veterans brought the Kashmiri mujahedin a wealth of combat experience and badly needed training in logistics, communications, and planning. Equally important, they infused the Kashmiris with Islamic fervor, and provided living proof that faith, courage, and determination could overcome seemingly overwhelming odds.
In the years from 1990 to 1995, Kashmiri resistance forces were estimated to number between 25,000 and 30,000 fighters, divided into a score of different groups. Some of the rebels received military training in Pakistan from the ISI, and automatic weapons, mortars, and munitions were supplied to them across the border. This assistance, combined with help from Afghan mujahedin advisors, transformed the Kashmiris from a ragtag maquis into moderately effective guerrilla fighters, well able to put Indian security forces on the defensive.
The resistance ambushed Indian patrols, cut up convoys, killed stragglers, and staged frequent grenade and bomb attacks to make life miserable for Indian military personnel in the crowded cities and towns. Mountainous Kashmir was far better suited to guerrilla warfare than largely flat Punjab: its forested hills and high ground offered ample refuge for irregular forces, who easily eluded the slow-moving Indian forces pursuing them. Large-scale anti-guerrilla sweeps by ponderous Indian regular forces proved equally ineffective.
Though India has gained the upper hand militarily in Kashmir, its repression, denounced without cease by Indian and international human rights organizations such as Amnesty International, Asia Watch, and Physicians for Human Rights, continues relentlessly. Indian authorities have banned many rights groups and journalists from Kashmir, using the excuse that “the time is not right for a visit.” India simply does not want the world to see what it is doing in Kashmir. "